


Game

by celluloidbroomcloset



Category: The Avengers (TV)
Genre: Body Part Kinks, F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Touching, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 09:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3931660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celluloidbroomcloset/pseuds/celluloidbroomcloset
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steed and Mrs. Peel play a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game

Emma traced her eyes over the form of the man seated at the foot of the bed. Shoeless, shirtless, his legs jutting out before him, he relaxed on the ottoman up against the footboard, both hands propped on the bed. A broad, slightly softish chest concealed hard muscle, as she had reason to know. His shoulders were naturally broad, and his profession developed them – flexed muscles leading up into the elegant curved neck, broken only by a prominent Adam’s apple she loved to kiss and lick, feeling every time he swallowed, the rumbling noises he made vibrating against her mouth.

Emma smiled, flicking her tongue over her lips. Yes, all things considered, John Steed was an attractive man, as more than one lady in London could attest. But he was now her attractive man, seated at the foot of his bed, gazing up at her with hooded, smiling eyes from beneath long lashes, like a Parisian coquette. Hers, and hers alone.

“Are we agreed?” she asked. She tilted her head to one side and held back the tresses with the heel of her hand.

“Agreed,” he said.

“No moving, no touching? You’ll do what I tell you?”

“Mrs. Peel, I’m all yours.”

“I knew that already.”

They smiled at each other. Emma gently closed his bedroom door. The curtains were already drawn against the lights of the city night; a single lamp burned on his bedside table, illuminating his library copy of To The Lighthouse, three weeks overdue, she noted with an idle eye. She would remind him to return it. Later.

Emma undid the button at the top of her white trousers, and untucked her long black top. She kept her eyes on Steed, registering his reactions: the stiffening of his back when she pulled the top off over her head, the feral gleam in his eyes when she kicked the trousers off and stood in her lace bra and panties – black, just as he liked – smoothing her hair with one hand. Steed was predictable in some ways – black undergarments, lace, garters, her leather catsuit; all general male desires. But in other ways…he seemed to respond most intensely after a case, when they were both tired, sweaty, when she changed from her city clothes to jeans and a t-shirt, or tossed on a pair of old pajamas just to feel comfortable. More than once he’d taken her when she thought she was at her worst, makeupless, unkempt. She was not at worst at the moment, but before the night was over her make-up would smudge, her hair would be a tangled mess, her clean body damp with sweat.

Emma had never been practiced at the coquettish seduction she knew some women employed, but it was erotic to watch him watching her, the unconcealed desire in his face, his jaw tightening when she came towards him.

“Sit up straight,” she said. 

He raised himself from his arms and straightened his back so that he was sitting in the center of the ottoman, hands at his sides. She sat on the bed behind him, kneeling so that she was close to his bare back. A heady warmth emanated from his skin, the combined odor of his cologne, his aftershave, the cream he put in his hair to tame the curls, and finally, beneath it all, himself, his own scent, as intoxicating as champagne. Emma closed her eyes for a moment, breathing him in. Then she put her hands on his back.

She traced the long musculature of his back with the tips of her fingers. A nail trailed down his spine to his belt and back up. Then across the broad planes of his shoulder blades, pausing on the scars that here and there marred the yielding flesh.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered in his ear, running a finger around a puckered wound just below his right shoulder blade.

“German bullet.”

She spread her palms and passed them over his lower back, until she touched the almost indiscernible marks at the base of his spine.

“And these?” She exerted a little more pressure, massaging the muscle at his lower back. 

“N…Ni San.” His voice was dreamy and a tad shaken, as though he were controlling himself. She trailed kisses along the supple skin of his back, stroking him with her hands and tongue. His breaths came in slow, stentorious waves, and she felt the tautness in his muscles every place her lips touched. Then she rose on her knees so she was sitting a little above him, and lowered her mouth to his neck.

Long and elegant, that neck, taut tendons and muscles that she followed with loving attention. She flicked her tongue and tasted the tang of his sweat, opened her lips and sucked on the skin, leaving purple marks. Her hands continued to caress his shoulders as she tilted his head to one side, nipping at the hollow of his strong jaw, pressing her mouth to his pulse. She brought one hand up into his hair – thick, curly shock, soft and unruly – and pulled on it while she took his earlobe into her mouth and softly bit. He jolted and gave a low grunt.

“Did I say you could move?” she whispered into his ear, following his neck tendons with the very tip of her finger.

“Give a man some leeway.” His voice had that throaty quality he developed when he was particularly angry, or particularly aroused.

“Do it again and I’ll have to punish you.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

She smiled against his throat. Leaning away from him, she reached behind her back to unclasp her bra. The sheer lace fell away. When she sat forward again, she slipped her hands around his sides to his torso. The touch of her bare breasts to his back provoked another involuntary spasm as he sat up straight, but she was enjoying it all too much to reprimand him. She slid her fingers through his chest hair and traced the circles of first one nipple and then the other, gratified as they hardened at her touch, gratified also at the woosh of his breath. She rubbed against his back, the feel of his skin against hers making her own body taut, an answering wetness developing between her thighs. She kissed his neck, his shoulders, the top of his back, as her hands skated down across his ribs to the top of his trousers.

“I want you in me,” she said. Steed tried to turn but she held him still.

“Not yet,” she said, opening the top button. “I want to feel you first.”

She unbuckled his belt and dropped the zipper partway, enough so that she could get her hand in, caressing his solid length still trapped by his briefs.

“So big,” she said, stroking him lightly. “Hard as a diamond.”

He gave a growl and once more tried to turn, but she held him fast. She scraped one nail across his nipple. 

“Bad form, Steed.” 

“Emma…” 

“Don’t argue.” She bit his shoulder. “Now, do not move.”

Emma got off the bed and walked around to stand before him. He did look desperate, his trousers half open and erection straining to be released. But he did not stand or try to touch her, just looked at her with that same dark, intense gaze. She knelt before him and opened his trousers the rest of the way.

“Emma…”

“Do you want to keep playing?”

He took a strained breath. “Yes.”

“Then you have to play by the rules. Even you.”

She took hold of his hand – long, thick fingers, hard palm, not beautiful but strong, masculine. Her lips brushed against the very tip of each finger, ending on the thumb, taking it into her mouth before releasing. She did the same to the other hand, holding his gaze for the duration, then brought his palm forward to her breast. His callouses rasped against her skin and she gasped at the sure, cool touch. It was all she could do to take his hand away again, lowering it to his side.

“Edge of the ottoman. Lift your hips.” 

He did as he was bade, rising enough that she could slide his trousers and briefs off.

“If you say anything more, I stop.”

He didn’t speak, but when she lowered her mouth onto him, he moaned as though he was being tortured. She kissed him, sucked him, licked him, taking as much of him into her mouth as she could and slowly withdrawing. She kept her hands on him, holding him still with fingers pressed into his hips. Every movement of her mouth seemed to drag more out of him, his grunts and groans increasing, the salty tang of his early semen dripping onto her tongue. She opened her eyes to see his hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms. Willing himself not to move. An evil idea formed in her mind, and she brought one hand down, wrapping around the base of his penis as her tongue painted swirls on the head. She squeezed gently and sucked at the same time. Steed jolted, his head arching back, his fists beating on the fabric of the ottoman.

“Emma!” he shouted.

She pulled her head away and stood. He shone with sweat and one hand grasped, apparently of its own accord, at his unsatisfied member. 

“Emma, please.” 

He looked almost in pain and for a moment she wondered if they hadn’t better end the game. Then she saw him pull his hand back with an effort, though she could tell he longed to finish whatever way he could.

“You spoke,” she said. “Turn around.”

He turned to face the bed, watching as she threw back the duvet and sheets and climbed in. She was already strongly aroused, and there was a part of her that wanted to simply drag him on top of her. But then that would defeat the purpose. So instead she arranged herself against the pillows, lowered her underwear partway, and slid her hand between her legs.

The touch of her own fingers sent thunderbolts through her. She looked at Steed, into his eyes, at his arousal, his desire, imagining him inside of her, the way he would enter her, the length and width of him filling her. She brought her free hand to a breast, imagined the sensation of his chest against hers, the soft skin tempered by coarse hairs, the hard strong hands holding her, pinning her against the bed as he drove into her. Her fingers against her clitoris became his, though his were larger, harder, longer, able to curve inside of her; she thought of his mouth sucking on her, his tongue flicking across her nipple, the rise and fall of his hips, him so hard, so deep... 

She opened her eyes again and saw Steed staring at her. Every muscle in his body was taut, and she saw reflected in his eyes what touch and teasing could never do – the sheer pleasure of their coupling, the intensity of desire, a need so desperate that it stripped them both of their cool, civilized demeanors, and left them as just two people, passionate in their own ways, frantic for each other. 

No more games.

“Come here, John.”

She barely even saw him move. Then he was on top of her, dragging her underwear the rest of the way down and off, his hands all over her. His hot mouth crashed on hers, impatient tongue plunging. He snapped the kiss off and descended her body. He kissed her breasts, sucking on her, biting her, grunting and growling like a desperate animal, and she reveled in it, that curbed power finally released. She dug her fingers into his back, her other hand tangled in his hair, and raised her hips against his. Her legs spread of their own accord, torrid, almost painful arousal pulsing between them. He entered her in two sharp thrusts that wrenched a wild moan from her lips. She locked her legs around his lower back and rose up to meet each of his hard lunges. His groans filled her ears, and she bit his shoulder to muffle her cries. Her nails scraped his back, his hands bruised her hips. She was nearing the crest within a matter of minutes, thrashing underneath him, screaming his name, urging him on with a hand on his chest. He came with an unearthly howl, the force of his orgasm filling her, spurring her on until she saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing but the frenzy of pleasure that blacked out the rest of the world.

The first thing she was aware of was his voice repeating something over and over, his breath warm against her neck. It took her a moment to recognize her own name. She tightened her hold on him. 

After a moment, she felt him shift.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I must be crushing you.”

“Don’t move,” she replied, and it was no longer a demand but a plea. 

They lay there for a few minutes more. Once again she drank in his scent, his touch, overwhelmed by the affectionate tide that washed over her. Finally she relaxed her hold on him, and he rolled over and off, falling back against the pillows on his side of the bed. She turned to face him. His eyes met hers, and they both began to laugh. 

“You play a rough game,” he said.

“So do you. Who do you think won?”

“I’d call it a tie, though we'll never know unless we get a referee in here.”

“That might rather defeat the purpose." 

“Mmm.” He shifted a little and frowned. “Would it be too much to ask that you trim your nails? I have quite enough scars as it is.”

“Oh, Steed, I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

Steed rolled over on his side and reached around to cup her face, pressing his forehead to hers.

“I think I might be addicted to you, Mrs. Peel. Do you mind?”

“Not in the least.”

He kissed the palm of her hand, closing his eyes. Addicted – that was a good word for it. But it was something Emma did not intend to kick any time soon.

Steed rolled over to face the ceiling again.

“Of course, it’s unfair,” he said.

“What is?”

“A rather one-sided game. Perhaps tomorrow, I can think of something new to play.”

Emma wriggled up beside him and put one hand on his chest. “That sounds like a challenge, Mr. Steed.”

“And you may take it as one, Mrs. Peel.”


End file.
